


It Fades If You Let It

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poison, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is poisoned with tainted <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fugu">fugu</a>. Peter finds him and thinks he is dead. Cue the tearful declarations of feelings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Fades If You Let It

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song “The Crown of Love” by Arcade Fire.

_“Congratulations!”_

_“Bet that’s a relief!”_

_“So what’s next for Neal Caffrey?”_

_“Your middle name is really George?”_

These and any number of sentiments – not to mention hearty slaps on the back – were being rained down on Neal on the night his sentence was finally commuted. The day was still a blur in his mind – he supposed he’d take the time to let it sink in tomorrow. For right now, he was floating pretty much on a haze of adrenaline, joy and relief at the prospect of being a free man.

The Harvard Crew had brought him to his favorite sushi place in NoHo, and the sake and sashimi were free flowing. He was trying to maintain a clear head – something within him wanted to be able to remember every detail later – but the place made the most spectacular sake sangria he’d ever tasted, and Jones was bringing him his third when he noticed that Peter had finally arrived.

Their eyes met across the crowded bar and Neal stood. Peter nodded imperceptibly and raised his bottle of Heisler in salute. Neal excused himself and went to speak with his best friend and now-former FBI handler. 

“There he is,” Peter said. “That’s what a free man looks like.”

“Peter,” Neal began, emotions suddenly making it difficult to speak. He settled instead for a hug, Peter patting him on the back. “Thank you for… well, for everything, Peter.”

Peter disengaged but held onto Neal, his hands on his elbows. “We’ll talk later, OK? I have something important I want to tell you.”

“What?”

Peter glanced around the bar at most of his team enjoying themselves. “Now’s not the time. We’ll catch up later.”

Neal stared at him a moment – there was something odd about Peter, something he wasn’t saying. He had a strange, faraway look in his eyes Neal had not seen before, but Peter pulled away and motioned to the bartender for another beer and the mood was broken. “What’re you drinking?” Peter asked with a grin, and Neal accepted yet another sake sangria.

There was a sudden buzz through the room and then a hushed silence as the doors opened and closed. Neal and Peter turned, curious, and were approached by Diana. “It’s Kramer,” she said, barely concealing her contempt for the man. “I’d like to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing here?”

Peter moved himself bodily between them as his former mentor approached – Diana had made no secret of her animosity towards him and the way he’d manipulated events in the last few weeks, and it had almost come to a head during the hearing. But Neal had thanked her for her friendship and asked that she not risk her career on his behalf, and she had reluctantly backed off. 

“Neal, Petey,” Kramer said by way of greeting. “Agent.”

“Agent Kramer,” Neal said levelly. 

“I thought I’d stop by to congratulate you on a fight well-won, Neal,” Kramer said pompously.

“I wasn’t aware it was supposed to have been so adversarial,” Neal commented. “Here I thought it would be about whether my selfless actions on behalf of the bureau merited a shortening of my sentence.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for wanting to ensure that justice was properly served.”

“I can,” Diana said, and Peter gave her a warning look.

“What’s done is done,” Neal said, and held a hand out to Kramer. “Shall we call it water under the bridge?”

Kramer looked down at Neal's hand and the younger man did not miss the fleeting expression of contempt that crossed his face before he was able to plaster on a bland smile. He took Neal's proffered hand and shook it briefly. “You’ve chosen a nice place for your celebration – an old Navy buddy of mine is the executive chef. I recommend the _otoro_. Best in the city.”

Neal accepted the gesture for what it was – Kramer’s attempt at maintaining civility – and gave him a patented 1000-watt Caffrey smile. He reasoned he’d never see the man again, so he might as well be pleasant, or at least pretend to be.

The evening progressed happily, despite Kramer's presence and its temporary dampening effect. Peter, to his credit, kept him at one end of the bar, reliving old times, as the younger agents celebrated. Neal caught his eye every once in a while, and Peter smiled a private smile for him each time, as if to say, _Have a good time – don’t let this putz ruin it._

At one point, Neal was on his way to visit the men’s room when he found himself confronted by Agent Kramer, who had a small plate in his hands and a sly smile on his face. “Hello, Neal,” he said, beaming.

“Agent Kramer,” Neal said, glancing at the dish in his hand curiously.

“Oh!” Kramer said, as if noticing the dish for the first time; Neal wondered how much he’d had to drink. “I told you my buddy was the chef here. I had him make you a very special dish. _Otoro sashimi,_ the finest grade, for you.” Kramer presented the tiny plate with a flourish. 

Neal looked down at it – there were two slices of the finest-looking tuna belly he’d ever seen, presented simply on a bed of paper thin matchsticks of daikon and carrot. A small mass of something dark green glistened atop each piece. “What’s the sauce?” Neal inquired. 

“A wasabi gelee, flavored with fish liver – quite unique,” Kramer answered.

Neal accepted the chopsticks Kramer offered and popped one of the morsels into his mouth; the fish practically melted on his tongue, it was so rich and delicious, the sauce a spicy-tart counterpoint. “Oh, that might be the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted,” Neal said truthfully. “You should have the other piece – it’s exquisite.”

Kramer smiled and demurred, patting his expansive belly. “Oh no, Mrs. Kramer’s got me on a strict diet – low fat foods all the way. You finish.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Neal said with a smile, reaching for the fish. As he did, someone moving past them stumbled into him and he dropped it, the sauce leaving a slick stain on his tie as it fell. “Oh no,” Neal said, truly disappointed.

“Never you mind,” Kramer said, depositing the plate on a nearby table and putting a hand on Neal's shoulder. “I’m sure there’s more somewhere. Come on over and talk with me and Peter – he’s been telling me about that business with Barrett-Dunne this Spring. Did Van Horn really come after you with a compound bow?”

Neal let himself be led over towards the bar, where he spent a pleasant enough half hour with Peter and Kramer as they reminisced about old cases and people Neal never met. Soon, though, as Kramer was recounting some of Probie Peter’s more boneheaded moves, Neal realized he wasn’t feeling very well. He held up a hand. “Hold that thought,” he said to Peter, who was good naturedly protesting certain details of the story. “I, uh, I’ll be right back.”

He made a beeline for the men’s room, where he barely made it to a stall before he’d lost most of what was in his stomach. He knelt beside the toilet, his mouth watering, waiting to see if there would be more. After the dry heaves finally subsided, he hauled himself to his feet and went to rinse his mouth out at the sink. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror – he was pale, his forehead clammy – and decided it was time to call it a night.

“Too many sake sangrias?” Diana asked as he came out of the bathroom.

He looked down at her and tried on a rueful smile. From her reaction, he imagined it looked more like a gaping rictus. “I didn’t think so, but apparently not. I think I’d better get a cab.”

“Don’t be silly – I’ll drive you. Just let me get my bag.”

“And Peter –“ he began.

“He’s no longer the boss of you, Caffrey,” she pointed out with a twinkle in her eye. “But I’ll let him know you’re not feeling too hot. Why don’t you wait outside – I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Neal cut through the restaurant to avoid his friends and the need to talk to anyone, and headed for the exit. There he leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying to overcome the sudden dizziness that had a hold of him. Before he knew it, there was the slight pressure of a small hand on his back. “You sure you’re OK?” Diana asked, leaning over him, a concerned look in her eyes. “I can call Christie.”

Neal didn’t think it was a good idea to summon a neurosurgeon when he’d merely gotten a little too wasted, and waved it off. Within minutes, the valet brought Diana’s car around, and he was slouching in her passenger seat as she piloted the car uptown toward June’s.

“Home sweet home,” Diana said, and Neal craned his head around, surprised to see that they’d already arrived at June’s. 

_That was fast – when did I pass out?_ he thought. 

“You want some help getting inside?” Diana asked, concern for him dripping from her voice.

“No, no,” he said around a suddenly-numb tongue. “I’m fine, really.” He pulled the handle on the door and leaned his way out of the car, stumbling as his leg gave way and he nearly landed on his right knee. He quickly righted himself and stood, straightened out his suit and closed the car door with a dull thud. He then fumbled for his keys and headed for the front door.

The three flights of stairs to his apartment never seemed longer than tonight, and by the time Neal reached his door, he had broken out into a sweat and could barely feel his hands and feet for the tingling in them. He thought it a strange reaction to being drunk, but he supposed it had been a long and stressful week leading up to the two straight days of testimony, and he was perhaps so exhausted that he’d allowed himself to get run down.

He closed the door and headed for the bathroom, where he quickly changed into a pair of sleep pants, threw cold water onto his face and headed back to the living room and his warm and welcoming couch. It was far too early for bed, and he reasoned that if he could just lie still for a bit, he’d eventually feel well enough to maybe watch a little TV or read.

He settled onto the couch on his back, letting the day’s events replay in his head. The announcement of the committee’s decision was still a surreal moment for him: the hot rush of blood to his head as they read it out made it difficult to hear; the gasps in the room as supporters and detractors alike reacted. He almost didn’t believe it, still. He was a free man. The possibilities of what he could and should do once the next day dawned were too numerous to even think about, and were making his head spin. Or maybe that was the sake.

He had a fleeting thought that he ought to perhaps go and get a glass of water for later, but his limbs were suddenly so leaden he found he couldn’t move them. He strained his neck upward, trying to get off the couch, but his muscles weren’t reacting properly and he merely lay there, shockingly incapacitated.

“What the –“ he would have said if his throat muscles were working properly. What came out instead was a breathy sound and a slight moan.

_What the hell is going on?_ he thought, trying yet again to move his limbs. This time he succeeded in getting hallway off the couch, but he couldn’t get his legs under him, and he wound up falling onto the floor on his face, where he was forced to stay because _he couldn’t fucking move!_

_OK, Caffrey, don’t panic, don’t panic,_ he told himself, _this is just some sort of bizarre allergic reaction to the sake or something. People were allergic to sake, right? Didn’t this kind of thing happen all the time?_

No. No, he didn’t think so.

He could feel his heart straining as he began to panic, but his breathing was becoming more and more labored. He closed his eyes with an effort and forced himself to even out his breathing, taking in deep breaths, holding them and blowing them out through his nose. 

_That’s better, Caffrey. Now, think, think, think. What would Peter do?_ Somehow, picturing how his partner would handle this situation made him calm down even more. _First things first, this is not normal, there is something seriously wrong. You need to get up off this floor._ He pictured Peter looking down on him with that slightly squinty, disapproving expression he often affected when Neal was trying to pull something, and took a deeper breath. 

He concentrated all his will and strength onto the muscles in his torso and arms then, straining to move, to get going, to help himself. He was frustrated to realize that all he could manage to do was turn over onto his back. The muscles in his legs, his arms, even his face were quickly seizing up on him. He thought he’d try to shout for help – perhaps June or one of her staff would hear him – but almost no sound came out of him, and the effort stole too much of his strength and breath, making his head swim. He stopped trying to move altogether for a few minutes, afraid he was going to pass out.

_Well, at least I’m on my back and not staring at dust bunnies under the couch,_ he thought darkly as an itch on his nose suddenly manifested itself, and he tried to at least wriggle his facial muscles to deal with it. He had no luck. In fact, he found he could barely blink his eyes open and closed, and for the first time that evening came to a shocking realization. 

_I am going to die like this._

\----

“Neal? Hey, Neal?” Peter’s voice drifted up the stairs towards his ears and if he could have, Neal would have cried out for joy. As it was, he could only lie there and stare at the ceiling, his awareness already muted and sluggish due to a dwindling supply of oxygen as his breathing became further and further depressed. 

He heard Peter’s footsteps as he took the stairs with that loping gait of his. “Diana said you were sick, so I thought I’d just check – NEAL!” 

Neal heard Peter’s feet rushing towards him, and suddenly he was in his field of vision, hovering over him and peering down at him, a stricken expression on his face. “Neal, oh my God, Neal!” Peter said, and he sounded so panicked, Neal would have been upset for him if he wasn’t so glad to see him. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t react, couldn’t so much as blink to let Peter know he was aware of his being there. 

Peter pressed a shaking hand to Neal's neck to find a pulse, his fingers warm and probing. He moved them abruptly, then again, then tried again on the other side. “Shit!” he moaned, “don’t do this to me, buddy, please!”

_I’m not, Peter. I’m here – I’m right here._

Peter sat back on his heels and fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket. Neal could barely make out the top of his head out of the corner of his eye. “Please, I need an ambulance,” he said as the call connected. “My friend – he’s not breathing. Please hurry!”

Neal listened to Peter’s side of the conversation, as he gave them the address and reported on Neal's condition. “CPR? Yes, I know how. Yes, yes, I’ll try. Tell them to hurry. Thank you.”

Peter rang off and then Neal could hear him scramble back over to him. He straightened Neal's shoulders out, re-situated his head with his chin up, and leaned over him. “Please don’t be – please,” Peter whispered before taking a deep breath, pinching Neal's nose shut and delivering a short burst of air into Neal's mouth.

Neal wished he could say he was fine with this. He wished he could reach out to Peter and tell him he was all right, that he had no reason to be afraid for him. But he wasn’t so sure of that, because he couldn’t move and he couldn’t _speak_ , and when Peter began to breathe for him, it relieved a tightness in Neal's chest that he hadn’t realized was there before. It made him feel marginally better, clearer-headed, and he realized with panic just how little oxygen he must have been getting while he’d been lying there.

Neal's relief was short-lived as Peter began chest compressions. He supposed they were necessary – if Peter could discern no pulse in his carotid, then some sort of stimulation of his heart must be for the better. But the compressions hurt, and early in, he heard a _CRACK_ as something inside snapped or broke, and pain blossomed inside his chest. He’d have cried out if he could, and the fact he couldn’t somehow made it worse; the pain was a bright, burning thing in his chest, made worse each time Peter pressed down, and he thought, _Surely this is what will kill me._

“Sorry, sorry!” Peter gasped when it happened, and when he leaned over to deliver mouth-to-mouth, Neal saw tears streaming down his face. “Please, please don’t die,” he whispered as he began the chest compressions again, and Neal was inclined to try, but he was no longer so sure.

After several minutes, the EMTs arrived, pushing a gurney and carrying their equipment. Peter retreated from Neal's sight to be replaced by a young black woman, who felt for a pulse as Peter did, and similarly didn’t seem to find one.

The young woman pulled out a stethoscope and listened for a heartbeat, then moved it over Neal’s chest. “I’m detecting no heart beat at all, no breath sounds. He’s gone,” she said sadly, and moved away from Neal.

“What? No… he can’t be! You can’t… please, you have to try!” Peter begged. He was standing over Neal now, hands in front of him pleadingly.

“I’m sorry, sir.” She addressed her partner. “Make a note – DOA.”

_Please, I’m right here. I’m not dead. I’M NOT DEAD!_ Neal thought despairingly, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything.

The paramedic came back into Neal’s line of sight and reached out towards his face. She had a sad expression on her face as she gently closed Neal's eyes for him. Having them closed was a small mercy – they had been dry and burning – but now he could not see. 

He felt a presence next to him and a second later, someone lifted his hand. “Neal, Neal, Neal!” Peter was kneeling beside him, holding his hand, and crying. “What happened? What could have happened?”

_No, come on, I’m not dead. Peter, I’m not dead!_ Neal was desperate.

“Better call the coroner,” Neal heard the EMT tell her partner in the background.

“Please, God, no.” Neal could feel his arm extending as Peter lifted his hand, could feel his scratchy stubble as he held the hand to his face. “not today of all days. It’s a happy day, a happy day.”

_It is,_ Neal thought. _Happiest day in a long time. Please I’m here, Peter, and I can’t move. Help me! I’m not dead – tell them I’m not dead._ Neal could feel his eyes itch as if they were tearing up. 

“I wanted to talk to you, tell you something important,” Peter was whispering to him. “I thought it would be OK now. Now that you’re a free man.”

_Peter, Peter, Peter._

“I wanted to tell you I had feelings for you, th-that I have for a while now, and I – God, Neal!” Peter lowered Neal's hand from his face, but Neal could feel his other hand join the first as he squeezed it. “Who am I kidding? I’d have probably chickened out. But it’s true, Neal, I’ve loved you for a long time, and I – God, now you’ll never know. I’m so sorry. I wasted all our time!”

Neal could feel Peter’s tears splashing as they fell on his face. His arm was extended again, and he could feel Peter’s lips on the back of his hand, kissing him. _Peter, please,_ Neal begged. _Don’t cry, please, I’m right here._

The sound of Peter Burke – broken down, crying for _him_ – added to his fear of the last hours of what was happening to him all combined suddenly to overwhelm Neal. He could feel his emotions bubbling over, a tightness in his chest that was wholly unrelated to the pain of his cracked sternum, could feel a familiar heat rising in his face as he himself began to cry. 

_Peter, Peter, I’m sorry,_ he thought as he gave in to the despair and let the tears come. At first, he could feel them wetting his lashes as they pooled there, but a sob from Peter made them flow more heavily.

“N-Neal?” Peter said a minute later, dropping his hand on his chest. Neal felt Peter’s hand on his face, the pad of his thumb catching a tear that had fallen from his eye. “Neal?” The bright lights in the apartment made Neal's eye hurt as Peter lifted his eyelid briefly, and then his partner was gone. 

_Peter?_

“Hey, come here, come here!” Peter was addressing the medics. “He’s alive, please you have to come here!”

“What is it, sir?”

“He – he’s crying. Look, there are tears on his face. And when I lifted his eyelid, his pupils reacted. Please, you’ve got to check him again!”

Neal would have flinched if he could have as the paramedic tugged his eyelid open and shone a penlight into it. Next, the paramedics applied leads to his chest, hooking him up to their monitoring equipment. “Well I’ll be, you’re right. He’s alive. His heart rate’s severely depressed but he’s alive. Robby, bring the oxygen.”

Neal could feel hands around his head – Peter was kneeling there, holding onto him reassuringly, stroking his hair. “Neal, Neal, I’m here, buddy. We’ve got you, OK? We’ll get you to the hospital!” 

_Thank you, Peter, thank you,_ Neal thought, as the medics finally went to work on him.

\----

**THREE DAYS LATER**

Neal looked up as Peter hovered in the doorway of his hospital room, a bleak frown on his face. It was a new look for him, Neal thought, and he didn’t like it. But ever since Neal's “accident,” Peter had taken to wearing it. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Peter’s emotional outburst when he thought Neal was dead, or the fact that Neal was convinced it had been no accident. Neal hoped it was the latter, but suspected it was the former. In any case, the two had not yet had an opportunity to discuss it alone – there had always been someone around. 

Until today.

Neal set the surprisingly tasty cup of butterscotch pudding left over from lunch aside and smiled at Peter. “Peter, what a nice surprise.” Peter lingered in the doorway. “You can come in, you know.”

“Oh. Of course.” Peter walked slowly over to Neal's bed and looked at him briefly, then out the window, then at the file he held in his hands.

“What’s that?” Neal asked leadingly, wondering if he had the energy to keep up both sides of this conversation. Though the doctors expected him to recover fully from his poisoning, he was still easily tired out.

“Oh! Toxicology report.” Peter opened up the file and looked down at it. “The sauce in the stain on your tie was laced with tetrodotoxin, the same that was found in your system. We believe Agent Kramer had his friend, the chef at the restaurant, use fugu liver instead of salmon in the sauce on the tuna he gave to you. We’ve got them both in for questioning, but they’ve lawyered up.”

“I was right,” Neal said, taking no pleasure in it.

Peter nodded. “Kramer tried to kill you. Neal, if you’d actually eaten that second piece of sushi, you would have died.”

“I, um, wow.” Neal was speechless. This was not knowledge that made him at all happy. He knew Kramer had it in for him, but to think the man would take what he perceived as a defeat with Neal's commutation decision to the extreme of trying to kill him – well, that level of insanity eluded his understanding.

“Neal, I had no idea he had such animosity towards you.”

“Moz thought I had a persecution complex.”

“What’s that saying about paranoia?”

“’Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not after you?’ Peter, I never thought in a million years –“

Peter closed the file and looked at Neal, a pained expression in his eyes. “Neither did I, Neal. He tried to kill you. If I had any idea, you know –“

“You’d have protected me, I do know. As it was, you saved my life. I don’t know if I’ve had a chance to thank you properly.”

“About that –“ Peter began.

“We can just forget about it now, can’t we?” Neal interrupted. He wasn’t sure if Peter wanted to be reminded of what he’d said to Neal – that he loved him – and he wanted to give him an out if Peter wanted it. As it was, Neal himself didn’t quite know what to do about Peter’s revelation from the other day. 

“But I don’t want to,” Peter blurted, and then his face turned red. 

“Peter.”

“I meant it, Neal. I did. I’m relieved I wasn’t too late in telling you. And I know it was out of left field, and that you probably don’t feel the same, but I’m happy I said it – I needed to say it. Because life’s too short, isn’t it? We should know that better now than ever before. And, well -” he quickly lost steam and just stared at Neal, a look on his face like he might puke.

Neal carefully considered his next words. “There is no denying there is this _thing_ between us, Peter. I’ve heard the jokes at the office too, you know.” Peter’s eyebrows went up when he said this, and Neal saw he clearly _hadn’t_ heard those jokes, but he powered on. “But however nice I might think it would be, no matter what my feelings were or are, you’re a married man, Peter. There is not a single thing in this entire world that I want badly enough to screw with what you have with Elizabeth. I love and respect her too much – both of you, really – to do anything to jeopardize that.” He took a deep breath – getting this out was harder than he thought it would be. 

“There’s room for two,” Peter said quietly.

“What?”

“In my heart. There’s room for two. That’s what El keeps saying to me.”

“What _Elizabeth_ says?” It was Neal's turn to frown.

“She has eyes, Neal. She sees what you mean to me, what it would mean if I lost you. She was the one who pointed it out to begin with, when I was so wrapped up in denial I couldn’t see straight. I wasn’t going to say anything at all, not while you were still under my command. But then this commutation hearing happened and, well, I took it as a sign. I decided to tell you finally the other night – that’s why I wanted to speak with you alone. I wanted to say it while I had the nerve to. I’m still not sure I would have.

“When Di said you were sick, I decided it was another sign – a sign to keep my mouth shut. So I called El and she said I ought to look in on you in case you needed anything. If she hadn’t, Neal –“ He blinked back the tears that were forming, and Neal quelled an urge to reach out for his hand. 

He laughed instead. “I thought you were going to offer me a job.”

“Like you’d take a job at the FBI?” Peter scoffed.

Neal could feel the disappointment flash across his face despite his attempts to stop it. 

“You would?” Peter asked, surprised.

“Well, not anymore. You’ve kind of changed that significantly, Peter.”

“I have. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just because it’s unexpected, doesn’t mean it’s unwanted. And I do. Want it. But there are a lot of things to sort out first. You don’t win me this easily, Peter Burke.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a game.”

“Life’s a game, all the men and women merely players.”

“Misquoting Shakespeare? Moz would be disappointed.”

Neal ignored him. “I’m serious. This is big, and complicated, and it goes nowhere until I can have a long conversation with your wife. OK?”

Peter nodded, and Neal smiled, relieved it was all out in the open now. Neal rested his hand palm-up on the bed’s rail, and Peter took it. “Boy, this is not at all strange,” Neal commented archly after a few minutes, self-conscious of this new intimacy, but not wanting to give it up. 

“Give it a chance,” Peter said encouragingly. “We have the rest of our lives to get used to it.”

Neal smiled and thought, _Yes, we do._

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
